


Uneasy

by chasing_heaven



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Elizabeth is small but tough!!, F/M, M/M, Multi, NaNoWriMo 2017, Polyamory, Ressler needs a fucking break, Slow Burn, Tom is a manipulative flirt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-01-28 08:25:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12602424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasing_heaven/pseuds/chasing_heaven
Summary: An FBI agent tracks down one of the most notorious criminals on the most wanted list. A prodigal son toes the line between what is expected of him, and what he cannot have. A long lost daughter tries to live a normal life, hiding from the ghosts of her past. A series of chance encounters will change their lives in unexpected ways, for better and definitely for worse.





	1. Donald

**Author's Note:**

> So this originally started out as a short thing in a series of prompts sent to me on Tumblr. As I was writing it though, I started getting ideas and then uh... Well. It's Nano season, right?
> 
> Special things to takadasaiko and akarensilla, who sent me requests for Keen2 and Tessler/ot3 prompts specifically, and to my best buddy Josie, who has accidentally been forced into betaing the crap out of everything I write and putting up with my endless screaming about how WRITING IS SO HARDDDDDDDD.
> 
> (You can find me on Tumblr at adamjensenofficial and watch me yell a lot about Tom Keen.)

It had to be intentional, this almost unsettling starkness. Halcyon Aegis’ white walls and sleek, tiled floors immediately caused Donald Ressler to stand up a little straighter as he made his way toward the front desk. Everything was too bright, too clean: plush leather seats in the waiting area, those fake plants with too-shiny leaves bringing the only pop of color into the vast lobby. Lifting his gaze to the ceiling, he felt immediately overwhelmed with just how high it went. The elevator’s glass doors were sure to give its occupants a decent view of the entire room, if they didn’t faint from it first. It was unsettling, a far cry from the cockroach-infested basement the taskforce was currently using as its base of operations.

Funny how that worked: everyone wanted Raymond Reddington caught, and yet no one actually wanted to spare the resources toward it. Julian was convinced of some conspiracy to protect the man they were supposedly hunting, and Ressler had to admit there was something a little fishy about it. He just wasn’t ready to wrap his head in tinfoil.

And that was probably why they sent him to speak to the Hargraves rather than the older agent. Gale was good – give the man a scent and he’d chase it to the ends of the earth. When it came to people though, the guy was more of a hammer than a chisel. There were times a blunt instrument was needed to get someone to cooperate, but other times required a little more finesse. Maybe Donald wasn’t exactly a chisel himself, but at least he could keep a civil conversation going when he needed to.

But that was before this building and its too-clean, too-nice atmosphere. It smelled strongly of antiseptic, like a hospital. He wondered if the janitors were paid to scrub the hard-to-reach places with a toothbrush. The upper crust sure knew how to keep a place from looking like it entirely devoid of human life.

After checking in with the front desk, he was asked to wait a few moments for someone to show him the way up. “The elevator to Mr. Hargrave’s office is locked,” the woman told him, as immaculate as the rest of the place. “Many of the floors require a keycard to access.” Her expression was apologetic as she picked up the phone and asked Donald to wait a few moments for someone to arrive.

Soon, he was greeted by a man in an unbuttoned blazer with no tie who introduced himself as ‘I’ve been asked to escort you to Mr. Hargrave’s office’. Then without further explanation of his identity or purpose at Halcyon, he motioned toward the daunting elevator Donald noticed upon his arrival. He followed after the young man, breathing a sigh as the glass doors closed shut behind him. His escort, obviously quite used to the view, leaned against the opposite site with his hands shoved into his pockets. The elevator hummed softly as it ascended from the lobby, the ground rapidly shrinking behind him.

“Are you Mr. Hargrave’s assistant?” he asked, stomach twisting into knots. Donald kept his gaze focused on the sleek metal doors opposite him as visions of the Dr. Doom ride chose the perfect time to start playing through his head. The young man’s attention snapped to him, eyes wide with surprise before his brows knit together. He had rather expressive brows, Donald noted. “I mean, I assumed you – uh... Well. Work here.”

The other man let out a puff of laughter, gaze dropping down to his shoes. “I do a bit of everything around here. Sometimes I cover the front desk, sometimes I help organize things here and there.” He had a nice smile – a little crooked, almost sheepish. “And sometimes I give the FBI tours when they inevitably stop by to ask questions.”

“That happen a lot?”

“Scottie and Howard Hargrave run a private military company,” he responded, giving Donald a withering look. “What do you think?”

Donald shrugged. “Fair enough.”

The elevator dinged softly as it stopped on the seventh floor, and the other man lead him into a lobby just as sleek and imposing as the downstairs had been, only scaled down. The artsy block lettering on the wall stated that this was the administrative level. “How long have you worked for Halcyon?”

Looking over his shoulder, the other man studied him for several moments. Donald immediately felt like a bug under a microscope and had to try not to squirm. It was something in the eyes, he thought. Something about the color, or the way the light hit them. Something about the far too casual way he dressed and carefree demeanor. Maybe he was meant to put Donald at ease too – but like the lobby, the agent couldn’t help but find him off-putting and suspicious.

Finally, the other man turned back around and continued down the hallway, leading him toward another elevator. For this one, his escort withdrew a keycard and scanned it by the door. “About two years now. I started working here a couple months after I finished college.” His shoulders shifted, stretching slightly as he waited for the elevator to open. It gave Donald the impression of a bored cat, arching its back before settling back down for a nap.

“And do you like working here?” Ressler pressed.

“My opinion is you’re not going to get me to give you any dirt on my bosses,” the other man replied with a sugary smile. “Turn ons include long walks on the beach and romantic candlelit dinners, if you’re interested.”

Donald shrugged again. “Fair enough.”

* * *

 

If he had any doubts to how often the FBI stopped by Halcyon’s headquarters, the meeting certainly disproved them. It lasted all of ten minutes.

Howard and Susan “Scottie” Hargrave had made their money through private security and intelligence. Donald had heard a story or two from some of his colleagues here and there, rumors of black book, morally gray operations that even the CIA would hesitate to carry out. The thing was, that was all they really were: stories. Rumors. No one in the government would ever admit to relying on their services, and thus there was no such record of ever having obtained them. Similarly, the company kept all their secrets under lock and key, thoroughly vetted every employee they brought in, and were very careful with who was allowed to know what.

The government wasn’t the only entity they had ever formed contracts with though. One of their sources had lead them here, searching up a lead on Raymond Reddington through Howard. A friend of the family, they had said. He showed up around the holidays and various social events, and had one more than one occasion relied on their services for one thing or another. It was a stretch to think that any records of Halcyon’s operations could get them any closer to Reddington, but leads had a habit of vanishing faster than he would have liked.

Howard was genial enough – he shook Donald’s hand, had him take a seat, and very politely explained that he couldn’t simply hand over the files without a warrant. Scottie was a far more intimidating figure, just as polite but there was something in the eyes, much like the man in the elevator, now that he thought about it. When Donald turned to look at the doorway, he could see the other man waiting in the hallway, no doubt ready to escort him right back down. He hadn’t even entered the room when they arrived: he simply opened the door and stood aside without a word.

Much as Donald hated to admit it, there was something to admire about their tenacity. Not even his benign probing seemed capable of getting past their scrutiny, never mind any questions of deals struck with a man on the FBI’s most wanted list. Perhaps Gale would have been better suited for this than he was after all. Maybe Donald shouldn’t have come in alone.

Once he determined that there wouldn’t be any way of getting them to talk, Ressler made up his mind to come back later with the other man. He thanked the Hargraves for their time and left the room. The young man immediately fell into step beside Donald as he walked back toward the elevator.

The hallway outside the office was mostly deserted, not that there seemed to be much on this floor in the first place. As far as Donald could tell, this was meant to be the executive suite – there was Mr. Hargrave’s office and a very large conference room separated by glass walls with large shutters. He was almost grateful for the relative silence and privacy – at least he could pretend the dark cloud hanging over him was the result of his determination, rather than his failure.

He stepped up to the elevator, thinking of what to tell Gale when he arrived back at their cramped office. The man was going to laugh and elbow him, probably tell him he needed to be tougher or bend a few more rules. As Donald’s finger hovered over the down arrow, the young man suddenly spoke: “What would you do for the information you’re looking for?”

His body went still, staring at the closed steel doors. In their reflection he saw the other man, expression as calm as it had been on their journey up here. “You said you weren’t going to give me any dirt on your bosses,” Donald replied suspiciously.

“I didn’t say anything about Reddington,” he responded. “You interested or not?”

Turning to look at him, Donald’s eyes narrowed. The other man simply smiled at him, looking far too smug for the agent’s liking. The offer felt too good to be true, as if all of this was some sort of game. Donald was a mouse the man had pinned by the tail and was watching him squirm around.

It must have been a trick, but the alternative was to return without a shred of evidence and a trail growing colder by the second. Taking a deep breath, Ressler’s shoulders sank a little. “…Alright. Tell me what you want.”

The young man’s smile widened. Rather than respond to the question, he nodded down the opposite corridor and turned to walk away. Donald watched him, the way the man simply slinked off, head held high and hands in his pockets. He’d met men like him before, the sort of people whose sense of entitlement was directly proportional to the amount of money they had. Donald had a theory that he was one of those types, from the casual manner he wore an expensive suit to his overall attitude toward his job here. He wasn’t sure what the hell this man was, but he certainly wasn’t your typical office assistant just filling in the gaps in the company.

A moment passed, then another. Donald slowly cast a glance down the opposite side of the hallway, toward the direction of the Hargraves office. Vivid images of Scottie Hargrave appearing from down the hallway with a security team played through his mind. They might not even use the elevator, but instead opt to toss him from the fourteenth floor and onto the pavement below. When no one appeared to enact this paranoid fantasy, he finally began to follow the other man until they were side by side in the empty corridor. “What’s your name anyway?”

The man looked at him, much the same way he had when Donald interrogated him in the elevator earlier. Surprise followed by confusion. “What do you need it for?”

Donald stared back at him, baffled by the response. “Well generally people introduce themselves when…” He looked over his shoulder again and let out an exasperated sound. “Look, if you’re worried about your boss—”

“It’s Jacob.” His mouth snapped shut and the man finally stopped in front of another elevator, this one tucked away at the end of the hallway. “Jacob Phelps.”

 _Was that so hard?_ Donald thought, watching Jacob pull out the same keycard he used for the private elevator up to this floor and scan it. “Service elevator,” he explained. “Easier to get where we’re going. Less people to bump into this time of day too.”

Donald nodded, and Jacob pocketed the keycard again. “You still haven’t told me what you want,” he pointed out.

“I haven’t?” Jacob responded with that damned lopsided smirk of his. Donald would almost have found it charming if it didn’t irritate him so much.

This elevator didn’t chime the way the other one did. Its doors simply creaked open once it finally reached their floor, revealing a large space with mirrored walls. It was a far more private and altogether less harrowing experience than the glass walls had been. Jacob entered first, and Donald followed him, glancing one last time over his shoulder as the doors closed. “Really, what do you want from me?”

Jacob eyed him and hit a button labeled ‘S’. The elevator creaked as it began its descent. “Maybe I’ll just say you owe me a favor.”

“I don’t really like owing anyone favors.”

“Yeah, you don’t seem like the type,” Jacob agreed. “Well I did say I liked candlelit dinners, but you don’t seem like the type for that either.”

He felt his entire body tense up at the comment, his chest tightening along with it. Donald wasn’t sure to where to look, or even if he could tear his gaze away from the other man. Jacob said it so casually, like it was normal – asking an FBI agent investigating the people you work for... what, some kind of date? He realized his mouth was hanging open and quickly snapped it shut. Jacob’s expression didn’t change from the coy smile that had settled on his face the moment Donald agreed to follow him.

Finally, he gathered his composure and turned his attention toward the mirrored walls. His reflection stared back at him, stunned and fighting to maintain some level of indifference in his expression. Jacob’s reflection moved toward his own, his breath far too close to Donald’s skin. “Something wrong, agent Ressler?”

“I don’t like to play games,” he responded, not daring to turn and face Jacob. It had been all too easy for the other man to worm his way under his skin, to make his treacherous heart skipped a beat when Jacob’s fingers curled lightly around his wrist. He was acutely aware of how it wouldn’t slow down as they lingered there for several minutes. It wasn’t that this was the first time anyone had ever tried to flirt their way out of trouble with him by any stretch of imagination, but it was the first anyone had been so… blunt about it. It was the audacity of it that really got to him, made his head spin a little as Jacob’s thumb traced over the inside of his wrist.

 _Knock it off_. The words were caught somewhere in his throat, but he couldn’t speak, and Jacob made no attempt to further the contact. It felt like a scene out of a bad romance novel, where Ressler was the young, gritty detective and Jacob was some bright young thing vying for his attention. He was pretty sure it was supposed to be the detective making the assistant’s knees go weak, not the other way around.

“Who said it was a game?” Jacob spoke softly, the words felt more than heard. Donald held his breath – and then the elevator slowed, and Jacob let go of him as the doors creaked open again.

His feet were stuck to the metal floor, his skin burned from where Jacob’s fingers had made contact. He felt light-headed, the way you did after rising too quickly from a bizarre dream. His world spun a little as reality came lurching back in and Ressler seemed to remember that he had a job to do. Jacob stood outside the elevator, waiting patiently as if nothing unusual had transpired during the long elevator ride.

After a steadying breath, Donald finally managed to put one foot in front of the other, every movement calculated so as not to raise any suspicion. Jacob went back to his odd mix of bored but polite, but it took Ressler several minutes to remember how to breathe.

Even if no lead arose from this, he wasn’t bound to forget the experience anytime soon.


	2. Elizabeth

“Hey, it’s that guy again.”

Liz didn’t have to look up to see who it was, just as she didn’t have to check and see what his order was: tall latte, extra shot, light foam. The man rarely ordered anything else, not if he was at the store she worked at for the last two years. Reaching up, Liz adjusted the apron around her shoulders and snatched up a pitcher for milk while Shelly kept vigil over the registers, hip resting against the stainless-steel counter. “Really, who is this guy? He never orders anything unless you’re on bar.”

“Maybe he just likes the way I make his coffee,” Liz suggested, glancing up at her coworker. Shelly stared back down at her with narrowed green eyes, lips curled down into a frown. The effect was more akin to a pouty child than the intimidating look she was likely going for. “He’s harmless, I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Shelly huffed, flicking her blonde ponytail back over her shoulder. “Uh huh. You can’t trust these wall street types, girl. He’s probably looking for new arm candy.” Pushing away from the counter, she unfolded her arms and got back to work. Liz just shook her head with a smile, all while trying to figure out why on earth Raymond Reddington had waltzed into the front door on an otherwise normal afternoon.

He stood at the counter, coat thrown over his arm and hat tucked neatly under his arm. She wondered which tailor he had gotten this suit from, something soft and gray and probably worth more than she made in six months working part time in this place. A man like him could afford suits like that, and coffee much nicer than the latte she set in front of him. He took it with a smile. “A few years ago, I spent a few very frigid weeks in this small village in France,” he began. “I can’t remember for the life of me what the name of the place was, but I remember the café all the locals went to called  _ Café de Flore _ . I think it was meant to be a knock-off of a similarly named place in Paris, but they had the  _ best _ lattes I’d ever had – until finding this place much closer to home.”

He smiled at her, and Liz watched him expectantly. In a place that tended to attract mainly college students and hipsters, he stood out. It was no wonder Shelly noticed his presence whenever he came in. “We need to talk?”

“Yes,” he agreed. “We need to talk.”

Liz glanced to the side, expecting the other woman to be hanging over her shoulder. Instead she was relieved to find the blond engaged in a conversation with one of their regulars who had just come in after Red. Shelly made a habit of immediately swooping in on the pretty girls who came into the store and giving them her special brand of undivided attention, which at this moment proved to be a godsend. Turning back to Reddington, she nodded. “Wait outside. I’ll be by in a minute.”

Reddington put his hat back on and walked back out the front door. As the bell chimed gently with his departure, Liz took a deep breath and rubbed her temples. Last week he had been in Mombasa on business, before taking a flight out to Berlin with her mother. It was too early for him to exchange her last burner phone for a new one, the preprogrammed number ready to go if the need arose. That immediately made her a bit uneasy – what if something had happened? It could be that he was simply in the neighborhood, as was often his excuse for dropping into place unannounced, but the Coffee Club was a little out of the way for someone like him to just show up in.

“I’m going to go check the patio,” she called to Shelly. The other woman gave her a thumbs-up without turning her attention from the girl she was speaking to, allowing Liz to snatch a rag off the bar and escape out the front door without attracting attention.

The leaves had begun to change to hues of golds and reds and browns, gathering in piles on the tables and the pavement just outside the store that crunched beneath her shoes when she stepped on them. It was weather that required longer sleeves, but not quite chilly enough for a coat. That was still a couple weeks off, when the streets would be filled with people bundled up against the harsher winds. She brushed leaves from a couple of the tiny tables as she made her way over to Reddington, seated beneath one of the rapidly withering trees. “Something happened, didn’t it?” she began immediately. “If it was anything else, you would have just called.”

She did not expect a straight answer: he loved his sermons and parables, sharing stories of his experiences over the years. Not even as a child had he ever given her a simple explanation where a long-winded story could have taken its place. When he began without any sort of preamble, that immediately set her on edge. “Alexander Kirk is conducting business in Manhattan,” he responded. “My sources indicate that he’ll be in town this weekend.”

It felt like swallowing ice, the chill of it grasping her heart in a vice. Kirk’s voice still haunted her, crept in on her dreams when she least expected it. The colors remained so vivid, even as the rest of the image warped and shifted like a funhouse mirror: his final roar, the snarl in his expression as the house went up in smoke and ash. A vicious demand for Katerina to return with their daughter, rough hands that had seized her arms and tried to take her by force. Liz swallowed in an attempt to dislodge fear’s hold on her. “Does he know I’m here?”

“He wouldn’t have any idea where to begin looking for you, Lizzie.” Reddington’s gaze wandered over the street as he spoke, watching traffic drift down the road and the leaves falling from their branches. “He can’t connect you to Masha Rostova. I saw to that.”

The ice didn’t quite melt, but the grip seemed to grow lax, allowing her to release a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Then there’s nothing to worry about,” she said, ignoring the way her voice wavered. “He wouldn’t recognize me off the street and even if he did, there’s a coffee shop on practically every block. What are the odds of him stopping in here?”

He looked up at her through dark sunglasses, expression carefully blank. Sometimes she liked to pretend she could pick up on his intentions after all these years, but really… he was still an enigma most days, keeping her in the dark unless forced to do otherwise. To protect her, he promised. Liz wasn’t so sure. What did he see what he looked at her? Was it her mother, with her eyes and her hair and the way she spoke? Was it himself, with her determination and the blood on her hands? She looked down at the rag clutched in her fingers, stained with coffee and sticky with syrup.

Maybe it wasn’t that Liz couldn’t read him. Maybe she was afraid of what she would see if she looked too closely.

“The odds of him encountering you in a city this large are slim. Nevertheless, I’d rather not leave you alone on even the smallest chance he decides to take a stroll through Brooklyn,” he said finally. “Baz will be keeping a close eye on you. I’ll have him set up in the apartment across from yours tonight.”

“ _ Dad _ ,” she groaned, eyes rolling skyward. The single word was enough to give him pause, mouth parted slightly around whatever objection he had planned. Liz could count the number of times she had ever called him that. It was Reddington, or Red, but never dad, no matter what his relation was to her. He hadn’t been in her life enough to be called that. “…If it will make you feel better, then fine. But as much as I like Baz, he’d stick out like a sore thumb loitering around a coffee shop.”

His expression relaxed again, mouth quirked into a smile. “Dembe then.”

She imagined Dembe, set up in the corner of the coffee shop with a book in hand, pretending to simply loiter while Liz was on her shift. It was certainly a more believable image. “I haven’t seen him in a while. It would be nice to catch up,” she decided, twisting the rag in her hand. “Have you heard from mom?”

“The last I heard, she was still in Berlin,” he responded. “I believe she’s waiting for Kirk to leave before coming back to New York. If there’s one person in the world who wants even less to do with him than you, it would be your mother.” He tipped the cup back against his lips, drowning the rest of it before rising from his chair. “Shall I pass on a message to her for you?”

“No, just… tell her to stay safe,” she responded slowly. “And that I’m thinking about her.”

Reddington watched her as he buttoned his coat, head canting to the side. “Your mother is one of the most resilient people I’ve ever met. She’ll be alright,” he promised. Reaching out, he squeezed her shoulder lightly. “If you need anything – anything at all, no matter what time – you call me.”

He let go, starting to pull away when she reached out and pulled him into a hug. Hesitating, he wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her tight. “It’s going to be okay Lizzie.”

“I know,” she said softly. “ _ Dasvidaniya papa _ .”

With one last hug, Reddington let go and turned from her. Then he was gone, tossing his empty cup into the trash on his way down the sidewalk, and Liz was left alone with nothing but her thoughts and the rapidly dropping temperature. Ducking back inside, she made it back behind the counter just in time for a group of high schoolers to come in, fresh out of school and signaling the evening rush to begin.

How long had it been since she last saw her mother? She bit her lip as Shelly set up the cups for her on the counter. It must have been a couple months now, sometime toward the end of June. It used to be that they saw each other every day, going to lunch at the deli Katerina liked in Queens, or trading stories as they walked around Soho like tourists. There were vacations acting as covers for work, ice cream and late-night conversations over tea (or something stronger, if the discussion was particularly stressful). It was  _ normal _ , or as normal as things could be with a family like theirs.

“You okay?” Shelly asked, nudging Liz’s foot with her own. Liz glanced up at the other woman’s expression, brows pinched together in worry. “You just look bummed out. Did that guy give you any trouble?”

“No, nothing like that. I think I’m just feeling a little tired,” Liz said quickly. “I’ve picked up a lot of shifts this week.”

Shelly watched her for several seconds, her expression unchanging. When it became clear Liz wouldn’t give her a clearer explanation than that, she went back to filling pitchers and passing them over to Liz with a sigh. “Sometimes I feel like I barely know you. How long have you been here? Two years now?”

“Around that time, yeah.” Liz’s throat suddenly felt tight. Before the Coffee Club, her last job had been at a bar in Jersey that had lasted all of two months. Before that she was in Miami working at a tacky tourist trap selling ‘authentic’ alligator teeth necklaces, and before that she was in Pensacola. Her job, her apartment, everything about her current life and identity… She couldn’t remember the last time she had ever spent so much time in one place.

“So~o… Do you like,  _ exist _ outside of work? Do you ever do anything fun? We’re in New York for god’s sake – spit in any direction and you’ll find something to do.” With a sudden gasp, Shelly grinned broadly. “Hey, I’ve got a great idea—”

“Shelly, your last idea involved a germaphobe who ended up being married,” Liz groaned. What a disaster of a day that had been. Shelly had good intentions, but her matchmaking skills left something to be desired.

“Hey, he seemed nice! How was I supposed to know he was a creep?” Shelly sniffed. “Look, I’m not going to set you up on a date this time, okay?  _ But-- _ ”

“But?” Liz repeated dubiously.

“-- I  _ am _ planning on hitting up this place in midtown with some friends this weekend?” Shelly continued. “So maybe you should get out this weekend, have some fun for a change. It’s not good to be cooped up all the time. You’ll run yourself ragged.”

“I’ll think about it,” Liz offered half-heartedly. After Reddington’s warning, leaving the apartment didn’t seem like the most prudent of choices. She could only imagine Dembe’s reaction were she to attempt to convince him to follow her and a bunch of young twenty-somethings to a loud downtown club.

Shelly grinned triumphantly at her, winking as she passed over the next pitcher for steaming. “I will find a way to drag you out one of these days, Elizabeth Scott. You mark my words.”

Sometimes it surprised her how well they got along. Shelly was vivacious, full of energy and excitement. She loved people, she loved the company. She loved talking to anyone who would sit and listen to her long enough. There were no strangers in her life, only people she hadn’t really gotten to know yet. And Liz… Liz  _ liked _ people, but they tended to exhaust her a little.

Besides. There wasn’t a point in keeping close friends. Not with the way she lived.

Liz gave her a mock salute as she handed off her next batch of cups, hoping that the teenagers wouldn’t linger around too long. The last time they had wandered in, she had left her shift with a massive headache and their rowdy laughter echoing in her head the entire ride home. As they chattered their way to what she had mentally designated as their corner, she heard Shelly give a low whistle beside her. “Well  _ hello _ handsome.”

“Huh?” She turned to Shelly, her coworker’s attention focused back on the registers again. Following her gaze, Liz opened her mouth to ask what on earth she was talking about when her own eyes settled on him. The man was  _ gorgeous _ – tall, messy dark hair and sharp eyes focused intently on the menu just above the counter. She watched him speak quietly to the cashier, the way his mouth quirked up into a little smile as he spoke. “Aren’t you into girls?” She asked.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a fine piece of ass when it walks through our door,” Shelly sighed. “I can still find men aesthetically attractive without wanting to screw them.”

“You’re awful,” Liz muttered, not quite able to conceal her own grin. The man was finishing up his transaction, partially turned toward the bar where they made coffee. He had a nice profile, cleanshaven and dressed in a nice blazer and shirt. Taking his receipt, he said something to the cashier and turned toward them. Liz quickly stared back down again as Shelly handed her a cup and another pitcher of milk to steam.

“He really does have a pretty face.” Shelly didn’t seem to have any qualms about watching him move through the lobby, even after Liz elbowed her in the side. She punctuated the statement with a wistful sigh and a sad shake of her head. “So, what do you think? That the sort of guy who could convince you to head out for a night on the town?”

“I don’t really date, Shelly,” Liz reminded. “Where would I even find the time for it?”

The blond scoffed. “I’m sure you’d find some if only you would take some time off for a change. Go out somewhere, meet people! Maybe a museum if you don’t really like the clubs – New York has a million of those too.”

She recalled a trip taking to the Museum of Modern Art when she was about ten, Katerina’s hand in hers as they wandered the halls. If memory served, one of the pieces she lifted was still hanging in the study of her property in Westchester county. She had been rather upset to find her mother had taken it for little more than cheap thrills, but the memory of the day was still one of her fonder childhood memories.

“I don’t think there’s a lot of guys interested in going on a date to the museum,” Liz responded finally. Placing the lid on the man’s drink, she turned it around to read the name scribbled in sharpie on the side: “Tom!”

The man looked up from his phone, seated in one of the tiny circular tables they had crowded next to the condiment bar. He smiled a sort of lopsided smile as he rose from his chair, something far more sheepish than she had previously expected from him. She had pictured him walking with confidence in his stride, maybe a hint of arrogance – shoulders back, head held high. Maybe he didn’t wear suits like that all the time. Maybe it was the one nice suit he had. Clearing her throat, she set her drink down on the counter as he crossed the few feet toward handoff.

“Thanks, uh–” His eyes darted over the nametag on her apron, then back up again. “–Liz.” He smiled gratefully, picking the paper cup up. “Do you guys take tips? Or do you have a tip jar somewhere or…?”

“It’s by the register, sweetie,” Shelly chimed in, bringing Liz back to reality. She turned to look at the other woman, who pointed at the plastic tub labeled ‘TIPS’ in bright purple marker. The man barely spared her a glance, only smiling broader at Liz when she turned back to look at him. Waltzing back over to the jar, he dropped a couple bills in before making his way back to his table. Liz watched him move, the line of cups in front of her temporarily forgotten.

Shelly gaped at him. “Uh, okay. You’re welcome?” Rolling her eyes, elbow Liz in the ribs. “Well that answers my question. So that’s the kind of guy it takes to get your knees weak?”

Clearing her throat, Liz picked up the next cup in the line. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said quickly. Shelly gave her a dubious look that nearly made Liz drop the cup in her hands, scrambling to keep it from falling to the floor. “Oh stop! He was probably just trying to be nice! It’s no big deal.”

“Girl, don’t even try to play me,” Shelly scoffed. “I’ve never seen you so flustered over anyone who’s come into this store. Like, I was beginning to wonder if it was at all possible to make you blush in the first place but here we are.”

“I’ve got an idea: let’s talk about something else. Literally anything else,” Liz muttered. “Or are you trying to hide whatever that was with the girl who came in earlier?”

It worked like a charm: Shelly grinned as she delved into the epic drama that was her attempts at trying to woo Natalie the redhead. Natalie, who was a dancer and so sweet and sounded so cute when she laughed. She could listen to Shelly talk forever if it meant that she wouldn’t have to delve into her own hang-ups.

In high school she had moved six times across three different states, never laying down roots in any of the places her mother moved to. There were never any best friends, or boyfriends, or milestones. There were lessons Katerina passed on to her daughter, the skills that had been taught to her when she was still an agent of the USSR. Liz knew how to sharpen a knife and how to reload a gun without looking at it. She knew how to memorize the details of a person’s face, and how to live off the grid for months at a time if she needed to. She knew how to disappear. She spent a lot of her making effective use of that skill, until Reddington made her disappear for good.

She couldn’t talk about it with anyone: the fear that came with the sort of life she led.

That man -- this Tom guy -- he was nice to look at, but that was all anyone could ever be. A landmark to pass by, to maybe admire for a little while before getting back on the highway and moving on. She peered around the machine, spotting him across the room. He was sitting alone, scrolling through his phone with a pinched expression. Maybe he was expecting someone.

The minutes ticked by, and the sun eventually disappeared below the line of buildings outside. Slowly the high schoolers trickled out and the store began to quiet down for the night. Beside her, Shelly stretched a little. “Alright, I’m out,” she yawned. Lowering her arms back down, she reached behind her back to undo her apron. “Are you sure you’re okay Lizzie?”

Liz nodded. “I’ll be fine. We might even get out early if those kids don’t come back asking for another round. Catch you tomorrow?”

Shelly waved her away and marched toward the back, taking her apron off as she went. Breathing out a sigh, Liz picked up her rag, she went to work wiping down the counters and the espresso machine, rinsing out pitchers and beginning to clean things up for the morning crew people. Just a few more hours, and then she could take her apron off and hop on the subway back to her quiet apartment. Dembe would probably stop by if he didn’t show up before her shifted ended, and she could order take out and catch up with him. She would try to pry about Red’s work, and he would tell her exactly what she needed to know – which was nothing.

It wasn’t a bad way to spend an evening. Maybe she would take a bath in her cramped little tub with some music. Something other than the smooth jazz they tended to play in the store. Anything to distract her from her thoughts, from the fear. She was finally in a place where she wasn’t looking over her shoulder anymore, second-guessing strangers who passed her on the street. She was beginning to actually  _ like _ being Elizabeth Scott.

“Excuse me.”

She didn’t quite jump, but it was a near thing. Liz’s head jerked up from the counter to the handsome man from before. He was leaning slightly over the bar, offering her an apologetic sort of look. “Hey, sorry – I didn’t mean to surprise you,” he said with a sheepish smile. “How much longer are you guys going to be open?”

She blinked at him once. Twice. Finally, she gathered her wits and stood up a little straighter and checked the clock on the wall. “Another hour. We close at ten,” she explained. “We don’t start closing the machines down until after we lock the door, so if you wanted to order something else, I can get it started for you.”

“Yeah, if you don’t mind. If you’re working on closing I don’t want to hold you up.” He smiled at her, and Liz couldn’t help but return it. There was something about him that was simply infectious. It made her feel a little lightheaded, her heart running laps inside her chest the longer she maintained eye contact with him.

“It’s no trouble. The same drink as before?”

“Please. I’ll uh -- go pay for that really quick.”

As he walked back toward the register, she picked up a fresh cup from the stack and set the machine to start pulling espresso shots. A small americano, with just a little bit of steamed half-and-half and a pump of sweetener. She didn’t dare dwell on the fact that she didn’t need to ask him what his drink was, topping the cup with the steamed cream as he made his way back over to him.

“Thanks. I know it’s a little late to be drinking coffee, but…” He shrugged, picking up the cup. “Been one of those days, you know?” He turned the cup around in his hand for a moment, brows furrowing. “...Although I guess you would if you’ve been working here all day.”

Liz shrugged a little. “Since two, but it could be worse.” After all, it wasn’t as if they were terribly busy. Save for the late afternoon rush and the teenagers earlier, the shop was mostly quiet. She grinned at his sympathetic wince. “What about you? Long work day?”

“A bit, but I don’t want to bore you,” he said sheepishly. “Just a lot of paperwork getting sent to all the wrong places and a copy-machine that keeps trying to die on me, and it’s our busiest month so…” Trailing off, he cleared his throat and looked down at his cup. “...and then I started ranting anyway.”

Laughing, she offered him a sympathetic smile. “I don’t mind. I can talk and clean at the same time if you need to vent.” He was sweet, she thought. A little awkward, but there was something charming about the way he spoke, and the way his eyes crinkled a little when he smiled. There had been people like him at the bar she worked at, pouring out their hearts as she slid drinks across the counter to them until closing time. She enjoyed talking to a sober man more than she did a drunken one stumbling over his words. “Where do you work?”

“I’m an office assistant for a company that’s probably about to go under,” he said with a laugh. “Who knows, maybe I’ll come work for you instead. I’m not really sure I can put where I work on a resume and get a job anywhere in this city.”

“Ouch, that bad huh?” Liz laughed. She wiped down the sides of one of the espresso machines and went to work disassembling it. The man watched her with rapt attention, and she found herself having to look away. His gaze made the back of her neck heat up, just a little. “I’m sure you’ll find something. It’s a big city.”

“You’re probably right,” he laughed, nervous and soft like chimes in the afternoon wind. It was a pleasant sound, his voice. He was so painfully earnest she couldn’t help but smile in response. “I should probably head home but uh…” He cleared his throat and she looked back up to him, fidgeting slightly with his cup. “This is probably a little presumptuous, but could I give you my number?”

Liz’s entire body went still, staring back at him. The freshly-scrubbed machine reflected her own shocked expression back at her. “...Your number?”

“Yeah. No pressure or anything, just… you know. If you ever wanted to meet up sometime? If that’s alright.”

She thought about the lessons her mother taught her. She thought about her phone, with only two regular contacts in it and the burner that was reserved only for her father. She thought about the empty apartment she went home to at night, and how its only visitors were either family, or people meant to babysit her like a child. She thought about how terrible of an idea it would be to say yes, and about Shelly’s prodding earlier in the day.

She stared back into his bright eyes, how hard he tried not to look overly eager as he waited for her response. It couldn’t hurt, she thought. She didn’t even have to call him. It could sit on her phone, and he wouldn’t be any the wiser. There would be other girls in other coffee shops. By the end of the week, he wouldn’t remember her name. She put on a bright smile and shrugged her shoulders a little. “Sure, I don’t mind.”

“Really? I mean -- let me just…” He looked around, then quickly snatched up an unused napkin and pulled out a pen from his pocket, nervous energy causing his hand to shake a little as he scribbled his name and number down onto it. She was pretty sure this was how a lot of bad romcoms started, with an overly-enthusiastic male lead trying to woo a girl he barely knew. Reality, she knew, was far harsher than that, yet she couldn’t bear to tell him that and shatter his illusion.

Sliding the napkin across the bar, he grinned at her. “See you around?”

“Sure.”

With one last grin, he turned and quickly walked out of the store. She might even be tempted to say he had a bit of a spring to his step, hands shoved in his pockets as the door closed behind him. Liz couldn’t help but laugh a little as she stared down at the napkin in her hands.

_ Tom Keen _ . Yes, she remembered the name on the cup, the same name scribbled nervously beneath her fingertips. He seemed sweet, and that was really a shame. She didn’t really want to get his hopes up.

Folding the napkin, she shoved it into her apron.


	3. Christopher

“Do you know what this could do to us?” The man shouted, fists curled up on the table. “I don’t think you understand the position you’ve put this company in, Scottie. Attracting the attention of the FBI—”

He glanced up occasionally from the screen, eyes drifting over the table as the board argued. Susan Hargrave occupied one end of the table with her hands folded neatly in front of her. At the other end of the table sat Howard Hargrave, looking rather relaxed considering the situation. Had it not been for the effort that had gone into soundproofing the boardroom, Christopher was certain the shouting would have carried on well down the hall and maybe down a couple of floors.

It was a game they played, putting husband and wife in the same room. The good cop, bad cop routine was tried and true – and they always changed up the roles to try and throw people off. Christopher had watched meetings with the same group of people go down, except with Howard acting as the stern voice of authority and Scottie maintaining her unflappable demeanor. After all this time, the board never seemed to understand that it was all a ruse, just like no one ever thought to question the attentive third party in the room.

After all, Christopher wasn’t taking meeting minutes. He was taking notes on everyone in the room for later use.

No one paid him any mind when he entered a room. It was a talent of his: to be known by everyone, yet remain unacknowledged unless necessary. Scottie had set the example, directing him to fill in during their meetings to keep minutes. Then others in the company had simply followed suit: a mailroom tech called out sick, and he would show up for the shift; a secretary needed to leave early to pick up their kid, and he was at the desk for the rest of the day; they needed another body on the ground for an op, and he was there among the other grunts doing exactly what he had been trained for.

And he did it so well, was so reliable no matter where they put him, that no one really questioned him. No one knew that the man sitting quietly in the corner jotting down notes on a tablet was Christopher Hargrave. How could they? Half of them could barely ever remember the false name he used within the confines of the building and even if they did decide to question it, no one would dare broach the subject to either Howard or Scottie’s face. They were too busy arguing about a potential investigation to be bothered in the first place.

As the meeting reached its conclusion, the group of men each stood up and filed out of the room in a flurry of hushed conversation and rustling papers. Christopher took in each of their expressions one by one, searching for anything that might signal a threat on the horizon. None of them spared him a word, and only a few seemed to acknowledge him at all, with a nod or a glance out of the corner of their eye. He smiled back pleasantly and switched the tablet off, exhaling a breath as the door shut quietly behind the very last man.

“That went better than expected,” he commented, turning back to the table. Scottie had risen from her chair and now paced the room, arms folded in front of her. He had never known a woman as ruthless as his mother, from the way she conducted business to the way she moved. Even now, every click of her heels against the tiled floor felt precisely timed, a steady rhythm that echoed throughout the room. It was also how he could tell that she was agitated, well before her murmuring could accompany the metronome she had begun. “You’re getting yourself worked up over nothing.”

“Your son’s right,” Howard chimed in, reclining back in his own chair. His hands rested across his stomach, fingers laced together as he watched his wife waltz back and forth. “The FBI won’t be troubling us any further, and the board has no need to panic over an investigation that isn’t going to happen.”

Coming to a stop, Scottie closed her eyes and took a breath. Her lips moved, quickly enough that Christopher could only barely catch the words there.  _ Rubberbabybuggiebumpers _ . Tensing, he stared back down at the tablet in his hands, the black screen staring back up at him. Her anxious pacing, her muttered mantras… they weren’t anything new. There had been a time when she hadn’t been so anxious, when her smiles had been so much more genuine. The woman who stood before him now was so unlike the less guarded version of her that he remembered from his early years.

“I know, you’re right – both of you,” she admitted, followed by the creak of the chair as she took her seat again. “I don’t entirely approve of your methods, but if it keeps that agent from trying to dig any deeper, then….”

“Well he hasn’t shown back up, has he?” Christopher pointed out, bringing himself to meet her gaze again. Scottie leaned forward in her chair, chin resting against her laced fingers and brows pinched together in worry. “It’s not like I killed a federal agent and dumped his body in the Hudson, and honestly? That would have been a better plan than handing over what I did.”

“I just didn’t expect flirting with an FBI agent to figure into whatever scheme you cooked up,” she responded, squeezing her eyes shut again. “That could have backfired. It was reckless.”

“Closet cases are easy to manipulate. Make an advance toward them and they either clam up or lunge at the opportunity. Given the circumstances, I had a feeling he’d do the former.” He shrugged slightly, setting the tablet down on the table. A part of him almost felt terrible for doing what he did, but it had worked, hadn’t it? Agent Ressler had been so spooked by his forwardness that he hadn’t even questioned if the files Christopher handed over were genuine or not.

Not that flirting had really been a part of his plan. He’d originally just intended to play the part of scared office assistant, afraid of the repercussions if he were to be caught doing this. It had been something in the eyes, he thought. Or the way he smiled. Either way, Christopher had accomplished what he set out to do.

“…Kind of a shame,” he commented. “He seemed like a nice guy.”

“They always do,” Scottie murmured, opening her eyes again. Her gaze drifted toward her husband, a knowing smirk forming beneath her fingers. “That’s how they get you, you know. Don’t let nice guys or girls fool you.”

“Or how you get them?” Howard countered, returning her smirk with one of his own. Two years ago, they had barely spoken to each other when they were in the same room, finding excuses to drift entire countries apart if it kept them at a distance. They certainly didn’t smile at one another – or openly flirt the way they did now, as if they were alone in the room together. Closure had seemed to do more for their marriage than counseling ever had.

“You still haven’t told me why we’re protecting this guy,” Christopher interrupted, eager to banish the image of his parents flirting right in front of him. Scottie and Howard both turned their attention to him, as if they had completely forgotten he was there. “Reddington – he’s on the FBI’s most wanted list. They have a taskforce dedicated to bringing him in. Why help him?”

Scottie averted her gaze to her folded hands, and Howard maintained a carefully blank expression. It was the same looks they got when he asked about his childhood, or the necklace Scottie still carried around and fidgeted with when something was nagging her. Disappointment, but also embarrassment for talking to him about things that he had missed out on. “He’s been a friend of the family since you were a boy, Christopher,” Howard began. “And he’s been a close ally of ours in recent years. It wouldn’t be prudent if we started stabbing our friends in the back now would it?”

“I suppose not,” he murmured, and tried to recall if he had ever met the man at all. There had been many men his parents knew, too many for a child’s mind to make much of a difference between them. “…I don’t really remember him.”

“Well, you were small, and he’s a very busy man.” Howard smiled at him and Christopher stared back down at the tablet, drumming the pen against its surface idly. “In any case, you’ll have time to get acquainted with him sooner or later. Speaking of which….”

His hand came to a pause, pen hovering above the tablet’s screen. Christopher's eyes darted from the expectant look of his father’s face to the way his mother turned to him, a careful smile creeping onto her face. He knew that look – it was the expression she saved almost exclusively for negotiating contracts, for the more nervous clients who came through their doors. He knew exactly what her question would be before it even passed her lips. “Have you thought about what we discussed?” She asked. “You know that the longer we put it off…”

“The more useful I am to you and to the company,” he reminded. “People knowing who I am would make it a lot harder for me to keep an ear to the ground. I like the anonymity.”

She exhaled, laying her hands flat on the table. It was a bizarre experience to be on the receiving end of her tactics, but he also knew all her tricks. He knew better than to fall for it. “I know you do. Christopher, what you do is very important to us, and I am in no way trying to discredit you, or try to downplay your role in this company.” He looked away from her, setting the pen down next to the tablet. “The sooner we make the announcement, the easier things will be – for all of us, not just for you.”

Christopher felt his chest tighten, his fingers curling a little tighter around the pen in his hand. Just thinking about the attention – from the employees, from the board, but especially from the people beyond this very building – made his skin crawl. The very thought that there could be a day that he could walk into this building and have someone address him as  _ Mr. Hargrave _ had bile rising from his stomach. He sat back in his chair and swallowed down the growing anxiety with it.

“I’ve already emailed my notes to your office,” he responded carefully. “If that’s all you needed from me today, I would like to return to the admin desk. We don’t have anyone there today and I’d like to make sure no one’s accidentally sent our clients to the mailroom again.”

Scottie’s mouth pressed into a thin line, jaw working slightly. Whatever argument she had prepared to counter him with, Howard cut it off by clearing his throat and leaning forward in his chair. “That’s all, thank you Christopher,” he said, ignoring how Scottie jerked around in her chair to glare at him. “We’ll see you at home, alright?”

Without responding, Christopher rose from his chair and made his swift retreat. The door hadn’t even completely closed behind him when Scottie jumped to her feet with a hushed ‘ _ Howard! _ ’

His feet carried him down the corridor on autopilot as he fought off the bout of anxiety that arose whenever the topic did. Maybe if things had been different, he would have given her a different response. Maybe he would have even leapt at the opportunity before she could even ask – or maybe he wouldn’t have had to, growing up with the expectation of it always looming over his head. Perhaps, but life had dealt them a different hand, and acting as if nothing had happened could ever make him try to take his rightful place in the company.

Jabbing the down arrow with his thumb, his jaw clenched tight enough to hurt. What he wouldn’t give to be where he was two years ago. Maybe he hadn’t liked the person he was, but at least he had the illusion of choice in the matter. Ignorance was bliss, and much as he might have hated the cliché for what it was, Christopher had been a rather blissful kid.

It wasn’t their fault – his parents couldn’t understand what had happened. They knew the bits and pieces he shared, but none of those pieces formed even the outline of the puzzle, much less a full image. They wanted closure. They wanted their son back. He may not like it, but he couldn’t begrudge them that desire. He only wished that the last two years hadn’t felt like so much longer than that – decades worth of lost time compressed into such a short span that sometimes, he didn’t feel as young as he really was. His birthday was three weeks ago: he was somehow startled by the realization that he was turning twenty-six, not forty-six.

‘ _ Sometimes it doesn’t feel real _ ,’ she had said, with one of her fragile smiles. ‘ _ To have my baby boy, back where you belong. To have you home. _ ’ Except it he hesitated to call it home, though he wouldn’t tell her that. No matter his own feelings, it would have been needlessly cruel to dispel her happiness so thoughtlessly. She had waited far too long for closure she never thought she would get. But home was supposed to be a place where you could lay your head down, somewhere that felt safe.

Home wasn’t meant to feel like a thousand chains of expectation and legacy and birthright. The word shouldn’t have felt like swallowing ash.

The doors swung open and he boarded the elevator, leaning against its steel walls with a sigh of relief. With luck, neither of his parents had tried to call down to the admin desk to fetch him and seen through the fib he’d given them to escape. Even if it weren’t a lie, he could have left it unoccupied for the rest of the day and walked right out the front door, like he really wanted. Halcyon was very selective in the people they hired, no matter which position they were brought in for. He knew that, having been through the process himself. It wouldn’t be a kind thing to leave Ginny in charge while he waltzed out the front door, but it was tempting to take a walk through central park, or a trip to a museum exhibit – hell, he could take the train out to Brooklyn and see if Liz was working again.

Christopher’s eyes snapped open, digging his phone out from his pockets. He hadn’t checked it today, not since waking up that morning. Half the time the thing was more akin to an expensive paperweight than anything he ever actually used, not until scribbling down his number for Liz. The screen came to life and he frowned down at it. No new messages, no missed calls. The cheery beach background he’d never bothered to switch out seemed to mock him for it.

Stepping off the elevator, he pocketed his phone again. Best not to expect too much, he decided. She didn’t owe him a call if she wasn’t interested, but it would have been nice to hear from her regardless. The older woman working the desk in his place glanced up as he approached her, a broad smile spreading across her face. “Are you here to set me free, Jacob?” She teased. Ginny worked just down the hall as a personal assistant to someone in Human Resources, and had been more than happy to volunteer when Howard called him up two hours ago.

“Finally, yeah.” He returned the smile as she slowly rose from the chair, wrinkled hands smoothing her long skirt down. “Anything exciting happen while I was away?”

“Not really. I directed a few calls, but we haven’t had anyone come in today,” she explained. “I get the feeling it’s going to be a slow afternoon, so I’m you’ll probably be out of here before I am.” She leaned against the desk, watching him get settled back into place. He liked Ginny – she had been doing this probably longer than he’d been alive and had a very professional air about her. He trusted her judgment. “You do a lot around here, don’t you? I hardly ever see you in the same deployment twice.”

He grinned back up at her. “You know me, a regular jack of all trades. Just doing my best to help out where I can.”

“Well I for one appreciate it, as does everyone else here,” she responded, reaching out to pat his arm. He wondered how many children and grandchildren she had to have perfectly practiced that line. Then again, she  _ did  _ work in HR. “I just hope you find a permanent position here somewhere – I’d hate to see you go.”

_ If only you knew _ , he thought dryly.

She said her goodbyes, heading back down the hallway and disappearing around the corner, and Christopher turned back to his desk. The rest of his afternoon went by without incident, for which he was grateful. He could take calls and direct people to the right office or the right floor. It was better than the week before when he’d filled in for an absence in billing, tedious putting in numbers while the supervisor stared over his shoulder the entire time.

What he wouldn’t give to be out in the field instead. It’s what he was trained for. It’s what he was good at. If either of his parents had any sense, they would put him back on their Gray Matters team instead of letting him waste away at a goddamn desk all day. Yet here he was, passing the afternoon by mindlessly playing solitaire.

Long before either Scottie or Howard could make their way downstairs, Christopher was out the door, pulling his coat tightly around his body against the autumn chill. The sun had already sunk down past the surrounding buildings and the city streets were crowded with commuters heading home, packing themselves into taxis and filing down the sidewalk toward the nearest station. It was easy to disappear in the crowd of people who simply didn’t care enough to pay you any mind. That was what he loved the most about living in such a huge city: everyone had somewhere to be, something to do. No one looked at him twice, just like they wouldn’t look at anyone else twice, not even if they were wearing a suit made entirely of tinfoil.

_ I like the anonymity _ , he had said. If Howard and Scottie had their way, he wouldn’t even have that out here.

Maybe he’d hop a train downtown and see what trouble he could get into. Stay out all night and crawl back home the next day in the same damn suit he had on, reeking of cheap liquor. He could just walk to the East Village and wander around until his feet hurt, or sit on the docks at Brighton Beach until the sun came up. He could go anywhere but that an empty apartment two floors down from the penthouse suite his parents owned, the place they insisted he get to stay close to them.

_ Or you could leave _ , he thought.  _ Why do you even have to stay in the first damn place? _ He could clear out his account, buy a new identity, and go to ground. He could disappear and start over again somewhere new. Hell, he could stick to the same city and probably still manage to stay hidden if he really wanted to. No pressure on the prodigal son and the burden of the family business. No one to put a gun in his hand and tell him who to kill either. It might be nice, to see what he could do when there weren’t people trying to force him down the path they thought best. It wouldn’t be hard at all to become a ghost again.

Yet, he couldn’t help but think of his mother’s fragile smile. It was the only time he could ever remember her crying, shaking hands cupping the sides of his face. ‘ _ You’re here. You’re home _ .’ All the resentment in the world couldn’t make him do that to her a second time. He could barely live with the knowledge he’d been the cause of that moment at all.

Drifting toward the station stairway, his thoughts very nearly distracted Christopher from his phone buzzing insistently in his pocket.

His first thought was the ignore it, knowing full well it could be Scottie trying to coax him home early. He dug his phone out with the intention of declining the call, but the number that flashed across the screen wasn’t one he recognized. Christopher stared down at it, ignoring the dirty looks from the foot traffic trying to make their way down the stairs. It could be her. Maybe she was finally calling him back.

Well how would he find out unless he answered? Gathering his composure, he quickly moved away from the stairs and out of the way of pedestrian traffic. “Hello?”

“ _ Tom? _ ” He breathed out a sigh, not quite able to contain the relief he felt. Her voice was different over the phone, but it was her. “ _ I don’t know if you remember _ —”

“Liz, right? I remember you,” He laughed. There was no way of avoiding the city’s noise, no matter where he tried to move to hear her better. Traffic and people shouting in the background was just par for the course during rush hour. “I wasn’t sure if you would call. How are you?”

“ _ I’m good! Actually, I uh _ …” She trailed off. He pictured her, out of her apron and pacing around her place. Maybe she still had her hair up in that messy bun like the other day. Maybe she finally let it down after a long day of work. “ _ I guess it’s a little last minute, but a friend of mine has been nagging me to go check out this place downtown with her, so I thought I’d see if you… maybe wanted to come with us? _ ”

It would take him about twenty minutes to get back to his place, another five to get dressed if he rushed. Hell, he would dash across town to meet her right this second if she asked him. “You know, you actually have really great timing,” he responded. “I was trying to decide what to do tonight. When are you guys planning on going?”

“ _ Great! Well uh – Shelly’s off in about an hour, so it’d probably be around…. Eight? Nine at the latest _ .” Was that a smile he heard in her voice, or was he letting himself get worked up over nothing? He couldn’t stop grinning as she rambled on. “ _ I’ll text you the address and meet you there? _ ”

“Yeah, I’ll head home and change clothes. See you soon?”

“ _ Definitely! I uh… I’ll see you tonight _ .”

Hanging up, he barely had to wait more than a few seconds before a text message appeared on his screen from the same number, along with the address for the place. Christopher grinned, almost afraid to look away from the screen or put away his phone in case the entire thing turned out to be some vivid hallucination.

Finally, he shoved his phone back into his pockets and descended the station stairs. For the first time in a long time, he couldn’t stop smiling.


	4. Neon Hell

A few years ago, this place had been a hotel, until some investor got a hold of it and remodeled the place, knocking down walls and clearing out a large space at the front. Neon Hell, as it was now called, was both a very accurate name and yet somehow didn’t do the place justice. The lights were simultaneously too dim and too bright, swirling in an assortment of colors and beams swinging through the crowd of writhing bodies on the dance floor. Someone had even fixed the lights in the main dance hall to mimic upward flames, flashing in various tacky colors and painted an ugly looking Satan carrying glowsticks on the door. Walking into the place was like walking into a wall of sound, the physical force of it near enough to kick the air right out of his lungs.

If the goal was to create a club as obnoxious as possible, Donald as happy to say that they succeeded. A flash of his badge had gotten him through the door without much trouble, but as he stood at the threshold of the club, he wanted little more than to turn around and leave.

“ _Jeezus_ ,” Gale griped, barely audible against the roar of the crowd. Even having an earpiece was largely useless with the loud music playing. “ _Why do people wanna blow out their eardrums so badly?_ ”

“Eardrums? You should be more worried about my retinas, Gale,” Donald replied. He blinked a few times, but the afterimages weren’t going to go away anytime soon. Never mind the lights though, getting through the crowd was proving to be the larger challenge: bodies swayed, limbs flying in all directions, laughter and dancing and an alcohol-induced frenzy playing out before his eyes. He’d had his party days in college, but they were never anything like this. Leave it to Reddington to make connections with people who frequented the worst possible places.

Connor Reese, according to what they were able to pull up on the man, didn’t really seem like much. A student at NYU, good family, decent prospects for the future, but apparently a real party animal too. Neon Hell was one of his personal favorite haunts, and the connections his family afforded him got him into the VIP lounge with ease. He didn’t look like someone who would ever get involved with Raymond Reddington, but none of the man’s contacts ever seemed unusual at a glance. It could be nothing, but it could also be the link they needed. So regardless of his reservations, he was willing to take the chance.

It didn’t mean he was happy about it though.

After determining that he would under no uncertain circumstances even attempt to wade through the crowd, Donald opted for sticking to the flame-painted walls. He carefully weaved around bodies and tiny tables, around a few club-goers swaying back and forth at a safe distance from the mess that was the dance floor.

“ _See anything yet?_ ” Julian’s voice crackled over the earpiece.

“I’m working on it.”

He moved down the corridor, the music blessedly beginning to fade as he passed through the dimly lit area and into the rear lounge. Neon lines lined the walls, shades of pink and bright blue flickering over the crowd. A bar ran along one side of the wall with the same neon flames painted along the sides, and a series of tiny tables occupied the other, bright red and beaten with constant use. What remained in the center consisted of scratched-up black leather couches and a miniature version the main room’s dance floor, complete with floor tiles that lit up in a seemingly random pattern beneath their feet.

It didn’t look like Reese was around. Donald grimaced at the idea of turning back around to search the main room again. “I’m gunna check with the bartender, see if anyone matching Reese’s description has come through recently,” he said into his earpiece. “I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

“ _Gotcha, I’ll keep an eye on the door_.”

Why couldn’t it have been Julian inside and him at the door? The older would have been far more effective in a club than Donald was – he would have blended right in too, with his easy smiles and vibrant personality. Everything about Don just screamed _cop_.

He carefully navigated his way toward the crowded bar, manned by a shirtless bartender wearing devil horns held over from Halloween a month ago. Glancing around, Donald noted that this seemed to be a trend among the staff: there was at least one woman wearing bright red shorts and a cropped top, a pointed tail swinging behind her as she carried a tray across the room. He made a face and managed to wriggle his way between two other patrons, laying his forearms down on the bar. If he was lucky, he’d get out of here fast. Judging by the way the bartender was chatting up the girls in front of him however, Donald wasn’t feeling terribly lucky.

“It might be a bit.” Donald startled slightly, his head whipping around to the woman next to him. She smiled up at him, skin already a bit pink and eyes glassy. If Donald had to hazard a guess, she was probably at least a couple drinks in – enough to be a little loose, but still sober enough that her words didn’t slur when she spoke. Not badly anyway. “It’s been like this since we got here a couple hours ago.”

Donald looked down the bar, noting the number of people waiting on drinks. He’d worked retail jobs and waited tables through college, but between the neon lights and the noise and the people, he couldn’t imagine being behind the counter himself. He’d gladly go back to getting screamed at on Black Friday if this whole FBI Agent thing fell through.

“Is it always this crowded?” he asked, turning back to the woman.

“No idea. This is my first time here,” she laughed as she reached behind her head, trying to fix the messy bun her dark hair was pulled into. She didn’t seem that much younger than himself, maybe two or three years at the most. “I’m here with some friends of mine. They wanted to go out and dragged me along for the ride.” Looking over her shoulder, she gestured across the room to one of the tiny tables where a man and a woman sat, engaged in some conversation. The blonde kept wildly gesticulating as she spoke, the man across from her laughing hard enough that he was bent over the table. He lifted his head up, and Donald recognized that crooked smile, the shape of his profile.

He blinked owlishly, unable to believe his eyes. Even from across the room, beneath the garish glow of blue and green lights, Donald was positive it was him. There was no way in hell Jacob Phelps being in the same club where Donald as tracking down a person of interest was a coincidence.

His chest tightened uncomfortably.

“You okay?” The woman asked, causing his attention to snap immediately back to her. Her brows were furrowed in concern, lips down into a pout. It took Donald a few minutes to find his voice, quickly banishing the surprise from his expression.

“No, it’s just uh – I know one of your friends,” he said, nodding back to the table. She turned, following his gaze. “The dark-haired guy. How—”

Head snapping back to him, the woman smiled. “You know Tom?”

“Tom–?” He started to ask, but the woman was already turning back again, loudly shouting Tom’s name across the room. Jacob turned toward her, and the gleeful smile on his face slowly melted away, replaced by a look of complete surprise. Had circumstances been any different, Donald might have gotten some satisfaction out of that moment. Instead Donald awkwardly lifted a hand in greeting, with an equally strained smile to match. Turning back to the table, the man said something to the blonde woman, and then he was on his feet, kicking the red chair in as he went.

Donald expected Jacob – Tom? – to tell him to leave, to take the brunette back to his table and hopefully want nothing more to do with him. He had almost expected a fight of some kind, for… why? It wasn’t like the guy owned this club or something. It wasn’t like Donald was following him on purpose. So as the man strode up swung an arm around his shoulder, he wasn’t sure how the hell to react.

“Don! What are you doing out here tonight? I figured you’d be working!” He greeted cheerfully. Donald stared at him mouth opening with a response, but the other man seemed to ignore him and kept going. “Do you know Liz?”

Donald blinked. Slowly. “…We just met.”

“Well then – Liz, I’d like you to meet my friend Donald. Don, this is Liz. She invited me out tonight after _someone_ bailed on our plans tonight. What happened? Did you get off work early after all?”

This wasn’t happening. All it took was a few seconds and the other man had managed to entirely up-end the situation, and Donald was powerless to stop it. He could only stand there, dizzy with more than just the god-awful aesthetic of this place as Liz stuck her hand out with a smile. “Nice to meet you.”

“ _Don? You okay in there?_ ”

“—Yeah.”

Grinning, ‘Tom’ slapped him hard on the shoulder and focused his attention on Liz. “Why don’t you let me and Don grab the drinks? Shelly’s been nagging me to come and grab you for a couple minutes now,” he suggested, letting go of Donald. He reached out and squeezed her shoulder, looking every bit the same polite, reassuring person he had been when he and Donald had met nearly a week ago. “We’ll be back over in a sec.”

“You sure?” Liz asked, frowning slightly at him. “I don’t mind paying, really—”

“Hey, you invited me out, remember?” Tom grinned back at her. “It’s the least I can do.”

Shaking her head, Liz pat his hand with a dramatic sigh and slid it from her shoulder. “You’re far too charming for your own good, Mr. Keen,” she teased. She gave Donald another wave and turned, crossing the room back to their table, hips swaying slightly with the music as she went. Donald waited until she was out of earshot before turning back to face the bar.

“You lied to me,” he hissed.

Within a few seconds the other man’s cheerfulness was gone, replaced with polite boredom. He barely even spared Donald a glance, instead casting his gaze over the bottles lining the wall. The neon lights reflected back at them, shifting like a kaleidoscope. “I handed over sensitive files from my boss knowing full well that it could either get me fired or worse. Of course I gave you a fake name. You’re not an idiot, are you?”

Donald glowered at him, jaw working. It wasn’t that it was an entirely unreasonable excuse, but it didn’t sit well with him. Nothing about the other man really sat well with him, from his changeable mood to his penchant for flirting. “So, it’s Tom Keen then?” He asked dubiously.

“As far as you know. I take it you found something useful in those files?” Tom asked, finally turning to look at him. The corner of his mouth quirked into an amused smirk. “Because I get the feeling this isn’t how you spend your downtime.”

Somehow the fact that Tom had so easily pinned down such an inane fact about him was far more irritating than how he wouldn’t respond to a simple question.

“We found a name of a possible business partner. Could be nothing, but we’re running it down just in case.” Donald folded his hands on the counter in front of him, leaning onto his forearms. “Do you know anything about a man named Connor Reese?”

“Ah, so you _are_ an idiot. That’s good to know,” the other man responded dryly, earning a fierce scowl. With a sugary smile, Tom leaned over the bar to flag down the bartender. “If you start asking questions, he’ll be out of here well before anyone tells you where he’s occupying himself for the evening. Connor likes his privacy, even in a place like this.”

“You know this guy?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Tom responded, turning as the bartender finally made his way toward them. The vague explanation combined with the offhand manner in which the other man stated it didn’t bode very well. “Stick with me. I might be able to help you out.”

Donald frowned suspiciously at him. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” Tom responded cheerfully.

His mouth opened to question him – and why shouldn’t he? – but Tom had already turned back around to speak with the bartender. Donald took the time to simply watch him, the way the dim lights framed the shadows of his face, the sharpness of his gaze and the effortless way in which he smiled. It reminded him of the one and only time they’d ever gotten close to Reddington: the facade of pleasantries and warmth, deflecting questions with more questions.

Maybe that’s why Tom left a sour taste in his mouth. He reminded him far too much of the man he was hunting.

Within a few moments the bartender had set the finished drinks down on the counter in front of them, varying shades of liquid in plastic cups instead of the fancy glasses he’d expected. Glancing back over his shoulder at toward the main dance floor, it wasn’t difficult to imagine why that would be. No one wanted to be that guy at the end of the night crunching glass shards beneath their shoes. Tom carefully balanced them together in his hands. “Come join us? Then I’ll help you find your guy.”

Donald reluctantly nodded, and Tom smiled cheerfully at him as he swept across the room, deftly maneuvering around dancing bodies and the couches in his way. So they were back to that again, were they? Was this man ever genuine with his emotions? No lead had to be worth this – the bartender was free now, and he could just as easily ask him. Yet – what if Tom was right? What if asking around just sent their only current lead running? The trail was icy enough as it was.

He followed Tom back to the table, watching the other man set the drinks down in front of the woman he had met before, and the blond woman now hanging off her shoulder. “Who’s your friend, Tommy?” She chirped, peering up suspiciously at Donald. “Where’s his drink?”

“Don’s gotta drive home, so he can’t be any fun right now,” Tom responded before Donald could speak up. “He’s a buddy of mine from work. You already know Liz,” he began, pointing to her. She smiled back at Donald with a small wave. “And this is Shelly. She doesn’t bite, as far as I know.” Shelly laughed, picking up her drink with a mock toast and throwing it back in record time. Donald did his best to return the smile, and tried not to think about how much it made his face hurt.

“So, do you work for that same doomed firm Tom here does?” Liz asked, leaning in a little closer to him. “He was just telling us a few horror stories about his job. It sounds like a nightmare.”

Halcyon Aegis hardly sounded like a doomed firm to him, but the way Tom’s attention immediately snapped toward them with wide, imploring eyes gave him pause. What exactly had he told her about his job? “Not exactly,” he replied carefully. “Our… companies have collaborated on some projects in the past.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, he thought grudgingly. Halcyon had stepped in where the FBI often couldn’t. It was exactly the sort of business his father would have absolutely hated.

“Well there you go Tom. If all goes south, maybe you won’t have to sell coffee to tourists for a living,” Liz grinned, sipping from her plastic cup. He couldn’t tell what the drink was meant to be, some sort of pinkish liquid mixed with far too much ice. When Donald glanced back up to Tom, the other man was back to calm and cheerful, grin half-hidden behind his own drink.

That grin would probably be the death of him, he thought. No matter how ill at ease he felt around Tom, it was something about that grin – it made his chest feel a little funny, like releasing a thousand butterflies into his ribcage. The smile wasn’t for him this time though. It was entirely focused on Liz and her own smile, the way she laughed as Shelly launched into her own work tales, and the pinkish splotches rising in her cheeks. As is somehow, Donald and Shelly weren’t there at all, and it was just the two of them in this tacky midtown club.

Was Liz another mark? Someone else to manipulate and toy with? She wasn’t an FBI agent like him, or rival at a similar company. She was just a regular girl, out to have a good time. Maybe Tom was just that sort of person, flirting with anyone who seemed available, stringing them along for sport. His jaw clenched slightly at the thought. It was bad enough to be on the receiving end of it, but worse to see it happening to someone else.

“We should go dance!” Shelly blurted out suddenly, immediately snapping his thoughts back to reality. Her hands slammed down on the table, half-empty cups wobbling and bouncing against the painted red surface. Tom snatched his up almost immediately with a disapproving look and quickly downed the rest of it. “Come onnnn, I finally got Lizzie out of the house and I _will_ get her on the dance floor at some point tonight!”

Looking over his shoulder down the hallway, Donald thought about that dance floor again with its neon lights and ocean of bodies. He was not necessarily eager to wade back through them a second time, much less to dance. When he turned back, Shelly had a mischievous grin focused entirely on Tom. “Whatcha think, pretty-boy? Think you can convince her?”

Next to her, Liz sputtered and choked mid-sip, spilling pink liquid onto the table. Donald was beginning to feel a little sick to his stomach.

“I’m gunna get another drink first, but how about getting Don to go with you guys?” Tom responded, clapping him on the shoulder. Donald’s head jerked up to stare at him, but Tom didn’t seem to notice or care. “I’ll come find you guys in the crowd. Do me a favor and get this guy to loosen up, would you?”

Shelly cheered, downing the rest of her drink as Liz carefully slid out of her chair, wobbling slightly on her feet. Donald’s head whipped around to glower at Tom, but the other man just smiled back and leaned in to speak into his ear. “I haven’t forgotten. I’m going to find your guy for you.”

“I hate you.”

“Let’s go let’s go let’s go!” A hand took hold of his shoulder and Donald found himself dragged up to his feet by a spastic blonde, waving her empty cup in the air about her. He stumbled, caught his footing and struggled to keep up as she guided them across the room and toward the hall. Liz latched onto his free arm to keep from getting separated, tossing a few loose strands out of her face. When Donald looked over his shoulder, Tom was nowhere to be found.

He stumbled onto the dance floor, ducking through the forest of flailing limbs and laughing and grinding. He was used to New York’s crowds. He was used rush hour and the careful game of maneuvering through the crowded streets. This was another level of crowded entirely. People were actively throwing themselves into him, getting into his personal space and screaming and shouting, casually touching his arms, grinning at him like they somehow _knew_ he didn’t want to be there.

The next thing he knew, they were at the very center of the crowd, lights swinging overhead in time with the heavy bass music playing. Each drop from the speakers sent his heart racing faster. He felt lightheaded, his breath catching slightly in his chest.

God, this wasn’t happening.

“I’m sorry about them,” Liz shouted over the roar of music. The crowd forced them to press in close, her hand still latched onto his shoulder to keep from getting separated. Donald focused on her and point of contact between them. If he did that, he could get through this. “Shelly’s a bit of a spaz.”

“You don’t say?” Donald shouted back. Liz grinned back up at him, body swaying slightly with the music. He could do this. Tom would be back in a few minutes and then he could hurry up, do his job, and get out. In the meantime, how was he supposed to do this? Did he put his hands on her, or would that be too forward? “How long have you guys known each other?”

“We go back a couple years,” Liz explained. She had her hand on his arm, so maybe that was okay. Following her lead, he tried moving around with the music. Neither of them were keeping tempo, but neither was anyone else around them. “Shelly and I work at the same coffee shop in Brooklyn. She was my first friend when I moved back to New York.”

Focus. Breathe in and out. That’s it.

“Where’d you live before?” He asked.

“Around, here and there. My parents moved a lot,” Liz explained. “What about you? Did you always live here?”

“Grew up in Baltimore,” he responded honestly. “Dad was a cop, died in the line of duty. After that my mom moved me and my brother around just keeping her head above water.” He could vividly recall the sleepless nights, choosing between groceries and heat, his mother pacing the kitchen trying to figure out how to make ends meet. She’d managed to get a better job as a receptionist, but there were a couple years there that felt like hell on earth.

Liz frowned back at him. She had beautiful eyes, he realized. Bright blue, almost electric underneath the harsh lights. Donald swallowed slightly, and she gripped his arm a little tighter, a show of reassurance. “I’m sorry.”

“It happened a long time ago, don’t worry about it.”

The track changed to something a little slower, a little softer, and the oppressive atmosphere seemed to retreat along with it. The lights dimmed a little further and people around them seemed to recede with the tide. The FBI definitely hadn’t trained him for this kind of scene. Donald was many things, but a dancer wasn’t one of them. Then again, most people seemed to think energetic shaking and throwing their limbs out counted as dancing, so maybe it didn’t really matter if he could dance or not.

Maybe that was the point of this: letting go.

He had the sneaking suspicion that Tom had volunteered him for this on purpose. He was probably somewhere in the crowd, watching Donald’s discomfort with that stupid smirk of his, the prick.

“I kind of know what it’s like,” she spoke up suddenly. “My dad’s job takes him all over the place, so it was mostly me and my mom growing up. Mom did most of the world and dad would kind of just… pop in sometimes. Try to make up for lost time with trinkets from distant places but… It wasn’t the same as having him around.”

Donald bobbed his head in acknowledgement. “Still better that he’s alive than otherwise, right?” He pointed out.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” she admitted sheepishly. “I used to hate him so much for it though. I know now he was just trying to take care of us, but back then–”

She gasped sharply, suddenly stumbling into him as a group of thrashing bodies suddenly collided into theirs. Donald took hold of her arms, stumbling into someone else to keep them from wiping out on the dance floor. Gripping his arm tightly, Liz’s head snapped over her shoulder to glower as the group laughed and staggered right on by, hollering as they went.

“Assholes!” She shouted. Donald couldn’t help it – he laughed. There was something inappropriately cute about her getting riled up. She turned back to him and put some space between them again, shaking a few stray strands of her brown hair out of her eyes.

“Not sure I really like being in the middle of a mosh pit,” Donald commented.

“This really isn’t your kind of place, is it?” She asked, the smile returning to her face. Donald blinked back at her – she was the second person tonight to point that out, but he supposed he was pretty goddamn obvious about his dislike for all things loud and brightly colored. “I’m not judging you. I don’t really like places like that much either.”

“Well you look like you’ve been having fun at least,” he pointed out.

Liz tilted her head a little in thought, laughing. He liked the sound of that laugh, so full of life and energy – and a little as if she were surprised with herself. Like maybe she didn’t get a chance to laugh very often. The sound was enough to get his heart racing a little faster all over again, for entirely different reasons. “You know what? I kind of am having fun. You’re not bad company, Don.”

He grinned back at her, suddenly glad for the dark room. Were they back under normal lighting, he was sure his skin would be just as bright as hers was alcohol-flushed. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

Someone slid up behind him, a hand lingering on his hip and a voice in his ear. Donald only barely refrained from turning around and retaliating for the sudden invasion of his personal space. “Found your lead, Don,” Tom murmured into his ear. Donald could feel the smirk against his skin, the same way he had in the elevator.

He’d almost forgotten why he was here in the first place.

Without waiting for a reply, Tom’s hand fell away again, and he slid around Donald toward Liz, head bobbing along with the music as he moved. “You mind if I borrow him for a sec?” He asked, raising his voice for her to hear. “The damn office is trying to follow me out tonight, looks like.”

Giving them a sympathetic look, Liz finally let go of Donald’s arms. He could still feel the weight of her hands there, as if her grip had left a permanent mark on his skin. He was certain that if he were to roll his sleeves up, he’d find bright purple marks that would last for days there, lingering on his skin like a pleasant reminder of the evening. “I’ll see if I can find Shelly. You see here anywhere?”

“A bit closer to the soundstage. Think she’s trying to pick someone up.”

Liz sighed and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “Sounds like her, having way too much fun.” Patting him on the arm, she cast one more smile at Donald. “It was nice talking to you. See you around?”

“...Yeah, why not.”

She grinned and waded into the crowd as the song shifted again, back to another fast-paced track. The moment she was out of sight, Tom seized Donald’s wrist and tugged him off the dance floor. For the first time that night, Donald was actually grateful to be jerked around if it meant escaping the club patrons before they could hit him in the face on accident.

He wobbled slightly as they finally stepped off the flashing tile floor, yanking his wrist out of the other man’s grip. Tom finally slowed down and turned to face him while Donald tried to fix his suit. “Alright. What’s your plan?” The other man raised his brows. “Connor Reese. How do we get him?”

“We?”

“You know what I mean.”

Tom smiled, stepping in closer. Donald swallowed, uncomfortably aware of the diminishing gap between them. Too much like the elevator, and the way the other man had invaded his space then too. “He’s back in the VIP lounge. Had a chat with the bouncer and he’s going to let you through with me. No need to flash a badge,” Tom said, leaning in to whisper against his ear. “Told him you were my arm candy, so try to keep up appearances and get that stick out of your ass.”

Donald glowered, hands instinctively reaching up to take hold of the other man’s shoulders. “What are you trying to get out of this? Playing games with me?”

Tom laughed, his breath ghosting across Donald’s neck. He barely repressed a shiver at the sensation. “I’m helping you because it’s the right thing to do,” he said. “Flirting with you is just for fun. Now do you want to get this guy or not?”

For a moment, Donald couldn’t move. The club seemed to fade into the background, leaving just the two of them standing far too close while the music warbled somewhere in the distance. It was harder to breathe with Tom in his vicinity, harder to think. Everything about him seemed as if it were designed to put him off-balance and he didn’t know which way was up anymore. His fingers tightened, and he nudged the other man back, putting space between them. “I got this, thanks. Just get me through.”

Drawing back, Tom stared at him, his brows pinched together. His mouth pressed into a thin line, tongue darting out to wet his lips before he finally pulled away, walking past the bar from earlier without bothering to check and see if Donald was following him. There was something in his expression that the agent couldn’t quite place, something so unexpected that it took him a few moments before he could move.

Taking a deep breath, Donald composed himself before reaching up to adjust his earpiece. “Got a location on Reese,” he said. “I’m checking him out now.”

“ _Jesus, what have you been doing in there?_ ” Julian’s voice crackled over the speaker. “ _Was about to come bustin’ in looking for you_.”

“Yeah sorry, the place is packed. Took a while to find him.”

“ _You need back up?”_

Donald watched Tom walking ahead of him, carefully avoiding bodies along the way. “I think I’ve got some help on the inside,” he said slowly. “Be ready to come in if it goes sideways. Take the backdoor, going to be a pain in the ass otherwise.”

“ _Ten-four – where are you?_ ”

“VIP hallway, heading up to the lounge. I’ll keep you updated.”

Catching up with him, he nodded to the bouncer as he let the two men pass up the stairs, past painted flickering flames and images of cartoonish demons painted on the walls. Tom still hadn’t turned to look at him as they ascended the stairs, and finally came to a stop at the very top. The wide-open space overlooked the main dance floor, far less crowded than it had been downstairs.

“Follow the railing to the left. Your guy’s in a private lounge with a couple pals of his,” Tom said, not meeting his gaze. “Try not to cause a scene, would you? I kind of like this place. Would be a shame to see it shut down because a cop decided to put a few bullets in the walls.”

Donald snorted. “You telling me how to do my job now, Keen?”

Tom finally turned and looked at him, with that same strange expression as before. He still wasn’t sure what to make of that look, something not quite sad but almost… concerned. Donald’s breath caught in his chest as the other man leaned in, dry lips pressing just beneath his eyelid.

“I’m telling you to be careful, Agent Ressler.”

Later, after Julian tackled Reese in the alley behind the club, after they’d hauled the man into the back of a car to take him back to questioning, after the music and the glaring lights and four cups of coffee had settled into a deep ache at the base of his skull, Ressler found himself thinking about that moment. The softness of Tom’s lips against his cheek, the pounding of the bass, and the way all of it left him feeling weightless. He laid his head on his desk, basking in the blessed silence of his office, and absolutely did not think of the way that women on the dance floor had pulled him back to himself, and the way that man found ways of tearing him down all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, that fall finale really threw me for a loop. I meant to get this out a lot sooner than I actually did but alas, here we are. You enjoying the slow burn? ME TOO. Also went ahead and bumped the rating up because things are gunna get a little more uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh well. YOU KNOW. At some point.
> 
> (Am I considering this a fix-it fic now? YOU BETCHA.)


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